


trust the journey

by elisela



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Christopher Diaz is a National Treasure, Clowns, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Confessions, Eddie Diaz is a great dad, Family Feels, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, M/M, Nightmares, Sickfic, Soft Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Therapy, Unrequited Love, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25139305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: A collection of ficlets from tumblr prompts. Tags encompass the entire collection, anything that needs a warning will be noted in the author's notes at the beginning.
Relationships: Christopher Diaz & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley & Christopher Diaz & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley & Christopher Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 190





	1. wreckage

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from anon: buddie, unrequited love.

He sees it in the way Buck draws in a breath than he was mistaken, that he should have kept it to himself; years of longing had burst out of his lips and the second Buck had registered what he said, Eddie wished he could take it all back.

“Eddie,” Buck says quietly. There’s no anger in his tone, no revulsion, no disbelief; instead, his voice shakes with apprehension, with remorse.

And oh, Eddie had been so, _so_ desperately wrong. Better to have kept this love he felt buried, all the quiet assurance that Buck loved in him _some_ way was preferable to this, the knowledge that Buck doesn’t love him in the _same_ way and Eddie was a fool for trusting that their friendship could weather this storm, because he can hardly stand to look at Buck now.

“Look,” he says, forcing himself to meet Buck’s gaze. The dismay on his face gives him pause, changes whatever flimsy excuse he was about to say into, “you knew.”

“I had an idea,” Buck admits, his fingers playing with the hem of his hoodie. 

“And you—” he’s not sure what he’s going to say; looks down at the ground and focuses on just breathing in and out. He’d been so foolish—foolish for thinking that Buck’s slow smiles and easy touches were something special for him, foolish for believing that he was the kind of person Buck would be able to love, foolish for certainty he felt when he told himself they’d still be friends.

“You’re my best friend,” Buck says, desperation coloring his voice. “Eddie, I—” he stops, seems to think better about what he was going to say, and settles on repeating, “you’re my best friend.”

 _Was_ , Eddie’s brain corrects. He was his best friend. Still would be, he knows, if his heart would allow it, but the shaking of his hands and the way his throat threatens to close tell him that it’s a thing of the past, something that he’ll hopefully be able to find comfort in one day, that Buck could find something in him good enough to hold onto for so long. He won’t be able to look at Buck the same, won’t be able to _be_ looked at the same, can’t imagine being able to withstand his heart being broken again and again and again.

There’s no way to fix this, no salvage for the ruins of this absolute truth: in trying to love Buck, all he’s succeeded in is hurting them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com).


	2. baked with love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: eddie can bake a few things very well (fluff, fluff, eddie is a great dad, and more fluff)

The first batch is thrown away. 

He’s not sure what he did wrong, but they’re bitter and dense, and definitely not good enough for something as important as Christopher’s first bake sale. He’d found the flyer buried at the bottom of his son’s school bag, crumpled and nearly hidden among half-colored drawings and candy bar wrappers that Eddie knows he didn’t buy. There’d been an ache in his chest when he’d smoothed it out, a brief flash of sadness at the thought that his son didn’t want him to know, because there at the bottom, printed in a cheerful font: _homemade preferred_!

Eddie’s not a great cook. He doesn’t have the patience it demands, the intuitive knowledge of when to stir, to flip, to change a heat setting. His pinch tends to be more of a handful, his approximations not nearly close enough. 

But Eddie _can_ follow directions. 

The second batch of banana nut muffins comes out of the oven smelling great, but they don’t look pretty, overflowing the tops and looking plain, and he’s mostly certain that a bake sale is 90% looking good enough to buy, so he shoots a picture to Buck and promises him he can eat as many as he wants if he shows up with muffin liners and oatmeal in the next half an hour. He’d bought plenty of overripe bananas at the store, and he has time to mix up a bunch of batter before Buck shows up, demanding Eddie make him coffee to go with the muffins. 

The door opens just as Eddie’s mixing the wet and dry ingredients, resisting the urge to dump them all together at once instead of combining slowly, and the only help he allows from Buck is to separate the muffin liners and add them to the pan. He makes sure to fill them a precise two-thirds of the way full before setting the pan aside and making the topping. 

His mom used to do this, before all three of them were in school and busy running around with extra-curricular activities: Sophia and her cheerleading squad demanded year-round attention, Adriana joined every band and choir their schools offered, and by the time Eddie hit third grade, Helena had no more time for baking for her youngest after school. But he remembers the way the sugar and butter feels in his hands, the coarse texture of the chopped nuts, the memory of sticking smaller hands in the mixture and licking it off his skin when his mom wasn’t looking. 

Chris is still at school, so Eddie takes a pinch of the topping and holds it out to Buck silently, who opens his mouth expectantly. Buck’s mouth closes around his fingers and he winks, and Eddie tries not to flush. 

“You’ve been holding out,” Buck says accusingly a moment later, turning around and reaching for the plate of discarded muffins as soon as he swallows and taking a bite. “ _Eddie_. These are amazing. What brought on the baking kick?”

“Bake sale at Chris’ school,” he says, scooping the topping onto the batter and pressing it down carefully. “It’s tomorrow, I wanted to surprise him.”

Buck’s watching him when he looks over, a familiar look that Eddie sees on his face so often when Chris is around. “You’re a good dad, Eds,” he says. “He’s gonna love it.”

Eddie ducks his head, nods once, trying to accept the compliment instead of giving in to his instinct to reject the compliment. He’s trying, at least, and if Chris’ wide eyes and excited smile when he gets home are anything to go by, he’s doing a pretty good job. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com).


	3. come (from) away with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: buck does theater as art therapy

Eddie’s not going to laugh, because he’s not an asshole, but—he kind of wants to. Just a little, when he sees how Buck scuffs his foot onto the wood floor at the back of the stage before looking out into the audience again, eyes searching over the rows for the third time since Eddie slipped into the rehearsal and took the seat in the darkened last row. It’s so like Buck, to extend an invitation with such casual sincerity, only to get flustered once Eddie took him up on it. It occurs to Eddie, as Buck looks up from under his lashes again, that he’s probably not visible past the brought stage lights, and when the director stops the ongoing scene to give a few notes, he takes the opportunity to jog quietly down the aisle and take a seat a few rows up from the stage.

The smile that spreads over Buck’s flushed cheeks when he glances up again makes Eddie forget how to breathe.

He’s not used to this feeling with Buck—being in love with him, that’s nothing new, feeling the slow slide of desire through his veins, the rush of gratitude, the giddiness, contentment—that’s all been there, he’s felt all for years now. But letting _Buck_ see that? Three months isn’t long enough for him to get used to it; he still catches himself hiding sometimes, turning away when Buck looks at him a little too intensely, flushing when his touches linger. But here, in a dark theater, he’s free to love without reservation, without the quiet discomfort of being seen, of being watched in return.

Contrary to popular belief, Buck and Eddie do not spend all of their time together. They’re still in the stage that they want to—that had come long before they started dating—but Eddie’s a single father, no matter how much help Buck is, so his alone time with Christopher is precious, and Buck has his sister and newborn niece to bond with. They manage a date night once a week, and Buck stays over at least once during their off days, but other than that, they’re still trying to give each other space. Eddie knows himself, he knows how he gets when he feels trapped into something, and he’s trying his best to make sure that doesn’t happen.

He’d known for the last year that Buck was trying out different forms of emotional expression—a replacement for a therapist, if you asked Eddie, yet no one did—drums were briefly thought about then reconsidered, painting ended with more paint on Buck and Chris than the canvases in front of them, and Eddie had put a stop to carving when a stubby blade mysteriously—through no fault of Buck’s, he swore up and down—gotten jammed into the heel of Buck’s palm. Theater had been the next choice, and Eddie was happy that it had been going so well. He’d done a few group classes, auditioned for a play at Eddie’s encouragement, and had been so pleased when he’d gotten the text about being cast that he’d pulled Eddie in for a hug and kissed him.

Eddie’s heard him running lines for the last few weeks, has sat around a table with the rest of the team reading out of photocopied scripts, but up until this morning, he hadn’t known about the singing. After Buck had invited him to watch dress rehearsal, he’d let it drop that he was nervous about singing in front of an audience, and Eddie had thankfully kept his face schooled into a concerned expression. Buck’s a decent singer—he’s heard him in the car and kitchen enough to know that he’s not tone-deaf, but he’s not particularly good, either, and Eddie’s been nervous for him since he’d admitted it.

So he sinks low into his seat, keeps his phone in his back pocket even though he’s restless for something to do with his hands when Buck’s not the one speaking, and he listens. Musicals have never been his thing, but he can be a supportive partner, and if it’s important to Buck, it’s important to him. 

Everything is fine—right until the moment Buck opens his mouth and the Prayer of St. Francis comes out. Eddie doesn’t even realize he’s moved to the edge of his seat until the end, when Buck moves towards the back of the stage again, and he has to wipe tears from his eyes to see clearly. He may not be a practicing Catholic, but he certainly grew up as one, and the song is hitting him hard, weaving together memories of sitting tucked into Abuela’s side during Mass with the feeling of Chris and Buck curled up on either side of him on the couch, all the comfort and peace of those moments wrapping around him like a blanket in the middle of a darkened theater. The feeling stays with him until Buck jokes that they’d ended up in the gayest town in Canada, and the laughter of someone a few rows behind him snaps him out of it. 

At the end, he’s standing and clapping along with the handful of people in the audience, whistling when Buck takes a bow. It takes a few minutes for Buck to get down to him, but when he does, he’s hugging him hard and Eddie can’t help but lean in and kiss him. “You were so good,” he says before Buck has a chance to ask, smiling as he watches Buck’s face light up and kissing him again. “Star of the show for sure.”

“It’s an ensemble, but that’s really nice to hear,” Buck says, face bright and cheerful as he pulls away and grabs Eddie by the hand. “I know we didn’t plan to go out, but you wanna? We have a quick meeting, but I’m free after that.”

“I have to go pick up Chris,” he says, lifting their joined hands to glance at his watch; the sight of their interlaced fingers reminds him of prayerful hands, and the peaceful feeling he had earlier is back, stronger. “Come home with us,” he says, tugging Buck closer and wrapping him into a hug. “I’ll pick up some food on the way and maybe you can stay for awhile.”

“I stayed last night,” Buck says, amused. 

“You can stay again,” Eddie says. “Tonight, maybe tomorrow night, maybe every night after that, too.”

“Sounds a lot like moving in,” Buck says, and Eddie feels him move slightly just before his lips are pressed below Eddie’s ear. “And they call me the impulsive one.”

“Not impulsive,” Eddie says, kissing his cheek before letting go and moving away, “just ready. See ya at home, Buck.” He jogs up the stairs before Buck can answer, knowing that the Jeep will be in his driveway by the time he gets home with Chris, hoping that Buck will at least bring some clothes with him and they can talk about him moving in. It may seem impulsive, but hearing the lines of the prayer had made him realize that the feeling he had with Buck at his side was never anything near trapped—it was peace. Because he and Buck? They’ve always spoken the same language. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com).


	4. connected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "It's just a nightmare. I've got you."

“It’s just a nightmare. I’ve got you.”

Buck wakes to pain in his leg, the phantom weight of an aluminum truck bearing down on him, splintering his bones and draining him of blood. He’s paralyzed, heart in his throat, stuck with lungs that can’t—won’t—expand, aren’t filling with air that he desperately needs. He gropes around, trying to touch, trying to find what woke him, because he swears—

The bed is empty. It’s been empty since Ali left, just one more goodbye in a long line of people who’ve walked away when he needed them most. 

He startles when he hears Eddie’s voice, peering into the dim light of the room for someone he knows isn’t there. “Eddie?”

“Buck? You with me?”

The phone is lying on his pillow, screen dark, but when he picks it up he sees a call connected. He fumbles it to his ear, cursing. “I—sorry, Eddie. I hope I didn’t wake you up—“

“I’m glad you did.” Eddie’s tone is gentle but leaves no room for doubt to grow, and Buck releases a shaky breath when he hears it. “Need to talk?”

“Rather just forget it,” he answers, a yawn cutting his words in half. “You and Chris want to come over tomorrow?” Eddie’s affirmation is immediate, pushes away some of the anxiety still rattling around in Buck’s chest. “Alright. See you then.”

“Stay on the phone,” Eddie says. “Just—in case there’s another. Okay? Don’t hang up.”

His fingers tighten around the phone involuntarily and he breathes deep, struggles to gain control, the sudden rush of gratefulness leaving him unsteady. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

“Night, Buck.”

The call stays connected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com).


	5. just people in face paint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "I need you to stay here, okay? I got this."
> 
> tags: clowns (okay, I don't like them so Eddie doesn't either, they're creepy and I accept no arguments).

Whatever Eddie is expecting when he walks into the hotel ballroom—overdressed men with shiny shoes and shinier briefcases, immaculately made-up women, an over the top (and likely strung out on uppers) promoter screaming in front of a group of people desperate to make cash—it was not this. 

“No, nope, nope,” he says through clenched teeth, reaching out shamelessly to grab Buck by the arm. “I thought Bobby said this was a convention.” He’s looking straight down at the floor, reminding himself to _breathe_ , he’s okay, it’s okay, he can do the job they came her for—

“Oh thank God you’re here,” someone says, and Eddie makes the grave mistake of looking up. Distantly, he hears Bobby directing Hen and Chim to take care of the scene, but he’s frozen to the spot, staring wide-eyed until he feels Buck’s hands on his cheeks, forcing his gaze away until he’s looking into Buck’s face. 

“Let’s get you out of here, sweetheart,” Buck says gently, and Eddie feels himself flush.

“M’fine,” he says, and he thinks it’s very kind that Buck does not laugh at his obvious lie.

“Just look down, Eds,” Buck says, taking his hands off Eddie’s face. “Or look at me, we all know you like the view.”

“Asshole,” Eddie mutters, but takes Buck’s hand and allows himself to be pulled back out to the rig.

“So,” Buck says, leaning against the truck. He’s still got Eddie’s hand in his, and Eddie squeezes it, appreciating the comfort his husband’s presence affords. “Not a fan of clowns, huh?”

“Fuck off,” he says, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, breathing deep. “I just need a minute. I can handle it.”

“They’ve got it covered,” Buck says, sounding amused.

He takes a few more deep breaths, mentally hyping himself up. They’re _clowns_ , it’s just a person in face-paint—a lot of people in face-paint, okay, creepy face-paint, but it’s not like it’s real, it’s not like they’ll actually hurt him, this isn’t a movie—sure, those movies are based on real life but—”I’m going back in,” he says, pushing off the truck before he ends up giving himself a panic attack. 

“Eddie,” Buck says, pulling him back. “I need you to stay here, okay? I got this.”

“I don’t see _you_ in there,” Eddie says, petulantly, but stays.

“Fine.” Buck rolls his eyes, still grinning. “The team has this. I have you. Come on, it was one dude who had stomach pains. Hen and Chim can handle it, they don’t need us.” He tugs Eddie closer, letting go of his hand but wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist a moment later, nuzzling his face into the curve of Eddie’s neck. 

Eddie lets his head drop, presses a kiss to the side of Buck’s head, bringing his hands up to rest on his husband’s arms. 

“Does this mean I shouldn’t book a clown for Chris’ birthday party?” Buck says against his skin. He can’t contain his laughter; his shoulders starting to shake halfway through his sentence.

“I’m divorcing you if you even consider it,” Eddie says. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“Fine,” Buck says, his indignant tone in stark contrast to the way he pulls Eddie closer and kisses his neck. “You know where to find me when you start having nightmares.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com).


	6. keep swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "why would I ever want to be with you?"

If Buck focuses very hard, the world stops spinning. Just for a second, a brief moment in time, but it’s long enough to traverse the remaining steps to the front door and sink against it. His legs are unsteady, his vision blurry, and he’s comfortable enough that he can wait out his drunken state for a few minutes before he tries the door.

Or maybe he’ll just sleep out here. 

He falls backwards when the door opens and from his spot on the ground, Eddie appears above him, swimming with a halo of light illuminating his face. 

“What are you doing here?” he says. He thinks. Eddie’s frowning though, and Buck realizes his lips aren’t moving. He tries again.

Eddie doesn’t answer, just reaches down and then Buck’s standing, swaying on his feet until warm hands steady him at the hips. 

Buck blinks. “You’re really strong,” he says. “Like—like the Hulk. Only not like, green.”

“Oh, this will be fun,” Eddie says, and then Buck is moving. He closes his eyes when the room starts to spin, which is a mistake, because—

“Oops,” he says, and laughs. “Who made that word? Did you make that word, Eddie? Oops. Oops.” He tries it again and again, varying his pitch, dragging it out. 

“Come on, back up,” Eddie says. 

Buck snaps his mouth closed. Eddie’s hands are on his face and—he doesn’t feel them. He can _see_ them, but they’re not there, not really, he knows what this means—“Is my face still on?”

“Why don’t we get you to bed,” Eddie suggests. “Your face will be on in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Eddie says, and wow. _Wow_. Eddie’s smile is soft and beautiful and just for him and Buck basks in the glow of it. “Come on, Buck. Let’s get you taken care of.” 

“You always take care of me,” he says. “No, Eddie, it’s true. Like—you’re like Kristof, you know? You take care of me when I need it and you’re always there and—I don’t think you can talk to reindeer but it wouldn’t surprise me if you _could_ because you’re so good. You’re so good, Eddie. You shouldn’t have to take care of me all the time. Abby said she had to take care of me, you know that? I tried, I really tried, but I just gotta keep trying. Keep swimming. I should get that tattooed. You think? To remember. To keep trying. If I keep trying, maybe you’ll wanna keep me, because why would you ever want to be with me now?”

The world stops. He reaches out, touches the wall next to Eddie’s bedroom door, frowns. He doesn’t remember coming down the hall, but the bed looks so warm, maybe he can make it. 

He jumps when he hears Eddie’s voice. “Why would I ever want to be with you?”

“Your voice sounds funny,” he says, slumping against the doorframe. “S’what I said. Keep swimming. Eddie?” Eddie makes a noise next to him. “M’gonna fall.”

“I’ve got you,” Eddie says. “Few more steps, you can make it.”

“Swimming,” Buck says, and he snorts. His eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow. “Maybe one day, Eddie.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Eddie says. “If you manage to remember this conversation.”

“I will.”

“I doubt that,” Eddie says. Buck feels Eddie’s hands on him, turning him onto his side. “But I can help you remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com).


	7. wrapped up in you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "Please, don't leave."  
> tags: fluffy fluff fluff

It’s chaos everywhere Eddie looks. Mountains of gift wrap and boxes stacked haphazardly on every flat surface in Buck’s apartment, what looks like several dozen unfrosted cupcakes packed into tupperware containers, bunches of balloons crammed into a corner and streamers, more streamers than Eddie would ever know what to do with. There’s more pink and gold in this room than they’d seen at the toddler beauty pageant, and that’s saying something.

“Please,” Buck says, grasping his wrist, “please, don’t leave. I’m never going to get all this done. I don’t know _what_ Maddie was thinking, I’m not the party planner—”

“You planned Christmas,” Eddie interrupts, picking up … something … covered in gold sparkles and setting it back down, frowning at the glitter it had left behind on his fingertips. 

“ _Athena_ planned Christmas, I just figured out everyone’s schedule and made a guest list,” Buck says. His hand squeezes Eddie harder. “And I got the decorations and stuff but that was Christmas, that was _easy_. I don’t know how to plan a baby shower!”

“It—it looks planned,” Eddie says, looking around the loft again. The white light up trees are a nice touch, he thinks, and expensive looking; not for the first time, he wonders where Buck got the money to afford, well—everything.

“This was just everything in the baby girl section at the party store,” Buck says dismissively. “Eddie, I don’t know what I’m doing, and everyone sent all these gifts and I’m trying to wrap them because Maddie’s favorite part is unwrapping things, and you _know_ how bad I am at all that, it’s going to look awful and yesterday she cried because the napkin she got was wrinkled and she’s going to hate it—”

“Breathe,” Eddie says, and uses his other hand to gently pry Buck’s fingers from the death grip on his wrist. “The party is tomorrow, we have some time. If you didn’t eat dinner, we can order some pizza and make a plan while we— _I_ ,” he corrects, looking at Buck’s panicked face, “wrap the gifts. You can keep track of a list of who got what, Sophia made a big deal about that at her shower and it’ll be a lot less stressful if we get a list now.”

There’s a pause, and then he’s being pulled into Buck’s arms—not the worst place to be, especially because he’s noticed Buck has a habit of ducking his head into Eddie’s neck and just … _leaving_ it there, nose pressed against Eddie’s skin, and he could swear Buck breathes in deeper by the way his chest expands against Eddie’s, pressing them even closer together. He waits for Buck’s palm against his back, the friendly pat, waits for Buck to let go after a second and step back, all smiles; it doesn’t happen. Instead, Buck’s hands lay flat on his back, his breath puffs out against Eddie’s skin, and he can’t help the shiver that runs up his spine, the feeling followed by Buck’s hand, stroking up and down his back.

“Ticklish?”

“Not usually,” he says, clearing his throat after his voice comes out rougher than he had intended. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t get the chance to be this close to Buck normally, but they do have less than 24 hours until the shower and he knows the expectations Buck puts on himself. If this isn’t the best baby shower Maddie’s ever seen, he’s going to be upset for days. “Okay,” he says, squeezing Buck tighter for just a moment before letting go, “I’m gonna order pizza while you get all the wrapping paper and we can get started.”

Buck’s looking at him, the small, pleased smile that he only seems to get when he’s looking at Eddie, and damn if it doesn’t make Eddie’s heart skip a beat. It only lasts a moment—just long enough for Eddie to commit it to memory, the buzzed feeling it gives him, the way Buck’s lashes flutter against his skin—and then they get to work. He starts wrapping after the pizza’s ordered, sorting through the mountain of pink gift wrap Buck had bought (“I read there needs to be a cohesive aesthetic,” Buck says seriously, pulling green wrapping off a gift that a cousin had sent, and Eddie _does not_ roll his eyes), putting his precision to detail to work by carefully measuring, folding, and possibly showing off the numerous ways he knows of tying bows on presents. Eddie might not go all out like Buck does, but he’s damn good at wrapping gifts—as usual, their skill sets complement each other.

They take a break to eat and he calls Sophia, who is only too happy to jump on FaceTime and scroll through Pinterest, dictating a shopping list to Buck and promising to text him reference photos (it doesn’t even occur to Eddie to ask how his sister has Buck’s number until much, much later the next day, when he’s scrolling through trying to find a certain photo and notices messages above, and—maybe it’s an invasion of privacy, but he scans through them, notes the dates and what the correspond to and lets it go, closes the whole thing out and decides not to say anything—if his sister needs reassurance of his safety from Buck, he’s not going to begrudge her that).

Finally, hours after the sun had set, every gift is wrapped (beautifully, Buck tells him, and Eddie feels like he glows under the praise and the way Buck runs his fingers along the ribbons gently, looking satisfied), gift boxes have been put together and carefully labeled tagged with Maddie and Chim’s names, and Buck has forced him into blowing up nearly a hundred balloons to tie onto an archway the next day, Eddie collapses on the couch and pulls Buck down next to him, settling in a little closer than he normally would. They leave the television off, but the music Buck had put on earlier in the evening is still playing, indie rock streaming softly out of the speakers set high on his ceiling.

“Thanks, Eds,” Buck says, tilting his head back with a sigh to rest on the back of the couch, “for not leaving when you saw this mess. You’re a lifesaver.”

He feels safe, here, in this space that’s just the two of them, the quiet certainty that he couldn’t mess it up with Buck even if he tried, that both of them feel too deeply to let things get too far. Maybe it’s courage that he feels when he picks up Buck’s hand and slides their fingers together, maybe it’s just the knowledge that Buck _knows_ , that they’ve both known for months what the future holds for them. “I wouldn’t leave you,” he says, and Bucks rolls his head and looks at him, a quiet, intense look on his face as he nods once slowly.

“That’s—I believe you,” Buck says after a few quiet seconds have passed. “I know.”

Eddie squeezes his hand, keeps them joined as he shifts until he’s pressed against Buck’s side. “I can help you clean up after the party tomorrow,” he offers. “And then—maybe you and I could go do something. Get dinner and go climbing, or to that mini-golf place you like.”

Buck smiles at him, slow and sweet. “Mini-golf can be the second date,” he says, and although it’s exactly what Eddie had intended him to think, he feels a flush heat up his cheeks regardless. “I don’t want you to spend our first pouting because I’m better than you.”

“Climbing it is,” Eddie says, grinning back. “I’m perfectly fine with you pouting because I make it up the wall first.”

“Oh, it’s on,” Buck laughs, and when he shifts over and rests his head on Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie feels his heart soar. 


	8. you have (1) missed call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "I think I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified."  
> tags: HURT NO COMFORT, ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST I cannot say that enough, ambiguous ending so you can give yourself comfort if you need it

Eddie sleeps with his phone under his pillow.

He always has; the vibration wakes him, a gentler start to his day than a blaring alarm, no noise to startle Christopher out of his sleep from across the hall. Except tonight, Christopher had woken him instead, muffled whimpers of a nightmare rousing Eddie from his sleep and pulling him across the hall to sit down onto his son’s bed and gather him up, hold him close and protect him from everything in his head.

He wonders later, if the phone had been on his nightstand, if he would have heard the call from Chris’ room.

“ _Eddie_.”

He’d rubbed Christopher’s back until his breathing evened out, until his head lolled against Eddie’s shoulder in peaceful sleep, and he’d thought about moving back to his room, maybe picking Chris up and bringing him with, but he can see the light creeping into the room, and it’s just _easier_ to tilt forward until Chris’ back hits the mattress, to roll to the side and cuddle up with him, pull his kid against his chest like he used to when he was between deployments and Chris fit into the space between his knees and his shoulders, instead of long legs everywhere and hair that tickles Eddie’s nose when he breathes in.

“ _Don’t be mad_.”

He’d been peaceful, content in that time before dawn; the world was right with Chris in his arms, and it was so easy to fall asleep with him, to sink into the comfort he offers, to let go of all the weight he makes himself carry and rest.

“ _You remember when Chim made us watch Wonder Woman and you complained because it was cliche and stupid to tell someone you loved them right before you died_?”

It’s Chris’ alarm that wakes them that morning, a silly little thing he’d gotten him for his birthday that woke him up to the radio; Eddie had startled awake to a pop song being blasted into his ear and his kid laughing after he fell off the twin-sized bed, playfully glaring at the curly-haired sunshine squinting down from above him. “See how you like it,” he’d said, and reached out to pull Chris down, tickling him mercilessly until Chris jammed a hand under his knee to get him back.

A shower, a gentle reminder to Chris to turn his shirt right-side out before leaving his room, and breakfast later, he grabs his phone off the bed to three missed calls and eighty-four text messages, all from the group chat. The last notification is from Chim and just says _okay_ , and Eddie shoves the phone into his back pocket while he hustles Chris out the door with his lunchbox and backpack. He doesn’t have time to read through them yet, and he’s going to see them all in an hour, they’ll catch him up when he gets in.

“ _I think I’m in love with you, and I’m terrified_.”

Los Angeles traffic is the nightmare that it usually is, but Chris fills the truck with chatter in between singing along with the radio, and they creep closer and closer towards his school. An accident clean-up and detour means he’ll be late, so he parks in the lot instead of joining the drop-off line, walks Chris in, and pulls out his phone to let Bobby know. There’s no answer, so he hangs up and texts that he’s on his way, and almost as an afterthought, presses play on his messages and lets them play through the truck’s speakers as he drives away. 

“ _I’m sorry, Eddie. I’ll tell you again, if I can. I think you knew. I hope you did._ ”


	9. tummy rubs & cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon: Eddie gives excellent tummy rubs whenever his boys aren't feeling well.   
> And then Zee said: where's the flip side, Eli??

Buck groans for the sixth time in a minute, and Eddie very carefully bites back a sigh. He doesn’t mind taking care of him–never has–but Buck clearly wants something and Eddie wishes he would just come out with it already, because Eddie’s never been very good at guessing games.

Buck groans again, a pitiful sound, and Eddie shakes his head softly. “You want some tea?” he asks. Buck is curled up on the couch, holding his stomach; it’s not going to be food that he wants, the temperature is fine in the house, and Eddie’s at a loss.

“No,” Buck sighs. “I just–”

“You just?”

“Can you rub my tummy? Like you do with Chris?” His cheeks flush and he looks at Eddie through his lashes, clearly putting on his saddest face in an attempt to get what he wants.

Eddie feels his lips twitch as he stares at Buck. “It’s cuter when Chris says it,” he says, letting the smile spread on his face. “Come here, this is just pathetic.” He shifts around until he can get Buck to lean back against his chest, slides his hand under Buck’s t-shirt and rubs back and forth gently. “Tummy,” he snorts. “You’re thirty-two years old, Buck. _Tummy_.”

Eddie regrets his entire life, but especially the decision to kiss Buck when he was sick with a stomach bug–definitely not his choice, no, he hadn’t leaned down and kissed him because of the way the flush on his cheeks made his eyes look so blue, not because of the way one of Buck’s hands was clutching his sweatshirt as he fell asleep against him, hair soft against Eddie’s cheek.

First Chris, then Buck, and now he’s laid up in bed, a solid week of misery in the Diaz household, groaning at the ache in his stomach. It’s been twenty-four hours but he doesn’t dare try to eat anything yet, not the dry toast Buck had brought in that morning, not the sleeve of saltines sitting unopened on his nightstand. Abuela had promised to bring pozole when she dropped Chris off later, and if Eddie’s going to spend the rest of the night miserable because he ate something he shouldn’t have, at least it’s going to be something good.

“Hey sweetheart,” Buck says, his voice hushed like Eddie is dying and not just suffering from stomach cramps. “I brought you some ginger tea–don’t start with me, Eddie, it’s supposed to help.” He tries not to pout, but the effort is wasted. “Fine,” he says, “I’ll drink it later. Lay with me?”

Buck’s on the bed in no time, spooning up behind him and settling a hand on Eddie’s hip, pressing soft kisses to Eddie’s shoulder. “Better?”

Eddie grabs his hand, squeezes it once before moving it, sliding it underneath his t-shirt to rest on his stomach. “Please?”

He feels Buck’s smile against his skin, the sweet way his shoulders shake for a moment before he says, “What are you asking for?”

He knew it was a bad idea to make fun of Buck. “You know what I want,” he tries. “I’m sick, Buck, please.”

“I really don’t know, Eds, I don’t have any clue what you need. Tell me.” Eddie sighs. “If you would please,” he says, closing his eyes briefly, “rub my belly?”

“It’s cuter when Chris says it,” Buck informs him, then laughs, hand sliding easily across Eddie’s sleep warmed skin. “Belly. You’re thirty-six years old, Eddie. _Belly_.”


	10. giving off sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I’m at the 24/7 gym at 2 in the morning and I thought I was alone so I’m singing in the showers, but when you start singing with me, I’m startled and slip so the first time we meet, we’re both wet and naked.

Filling in on B-shift has really thrown Buck off. Being down crew members is never easy, and not only does he miss his team (not that he’s ever telling Chim that), he misses his schedule. Buck thrives on routine, likes that it keeps him grounded and comfortable—something he hasn’t felt much of since Abby left six months ago. So of course as soon as they break the new probie in, Leo goes and gets himself hurt sliding down an elevator shaft like a big damn hero and catching his arm on some looped wires, tearing his rotator cuff and ripping his skin to shreds to top it off. As if that wasn’t enough, Mitchell’s wife had gone into early labor and he’d taken off eight weeks earlier than his planned leave (Buck wasn’t _blaming_ him for that, of course, he’d dropped by the hospital a few times with gift cards and dinner for them, but it certainly wasn’t helping matters). 

Down two, was bad enough, but then the ladder had collapsed with Macy at the top, and Bobby was scrambling to find coverage. They’d be getting some probies on loan starting the next day, but the last week has been difficult, and all Buck wants to do is get back to his usual schedule. 

Honestly, the only good thing about this one is that when he wakes up from his nap at 2am, the 24 hour gym down the block from his apartment is usually pretty empty. 

It’s leg day, and Buck takes the advice to never skip leg day very seriously. How else is he supposed to climb up endless flights of stairs, carry people out of burning buildings, or look good in those new pink shorts he bought for the next time he had a chance to hit the beach? And it’s been a hard shift, so he pushes himself a little more than he normally does, racks an extra forty pounds on the prowler sled that he pushes across the mat, adds an extra set to his split squats, and finishes up with a double-time Cupid Shuffle workout, because he’s seen it on TikTok too many times to not do it at this point, basically. 

He doesn’t always work out to music but he blasts it tonight, jamming his AirPods in and hitting play on a random Spotify workout playlist, letting music he doesn’t know for the most part carry his energy. For the cool down though—he misses Maddie a little, because their schedules conflict now, so he scrolls until he finds one of the playlists she’s made and stretches while Bon Jovi sings about holding on and listens to Jenny’s phone number being scribbled on the bathroom wall. 

He’s heading into the locker room for a desperately needed shower—the water pressure is more stable here than it is at his apartment—when Total Eclipse of the Heart comes on, and—

Well, Buck is only human, and the song basically demands you sing along to it. So, one earbud shoved in his locker along with his phone and the other still in his ear, he steps into the shower and belts it out. 

It’s just his bad luck that he squeezes body wash onto his hand with a little too much enthusiasm, causing it to drip off and onto the slick tile floor, just before someone comes around the corner and joins him in the chorus, startling him. 

He jumps, right foot sliding in the soap, and he can’t counterbalance himself fast enough on exhausted legs to do anything _but_ fall—which would have been fine, if he hadn’t hit his head on the shower knobs on the way down. But he does, and he must black out for a second because when he comes to, there’s a very hot, very naked man kneeling next to him, and Buck would like to die very much because this stranger’s dick is right next to his head and what his traitorous mind chooses to say is “sorry, this isn’t how I usually pick up men.”

Apparently, his prayers for a swift death go unanswered, but tall, hot, and naked just laughs. “Sorry for surprising you, man. Can you look up here for me? Track my fingers?”

“Hot _and_ a doctor?” Buck asks, because if he’s in this far he might as well just keep going. Shame can come later, when he’s drowning himself in whatever alcohol is in the cupboard to forget about this moment. 

“Former paramedic,” the man answers, grinning. “So definitely not as rich as you’re thinking. Can I touch your head?”

“You can touch anything you want,” he says, and then “if loss of common sense is a symptom of a concussion, you should probably call 911.”

There’s laughter, and then the man’s hands are cupping his neck, lifting it gently and prodding his fingers around. “A little swelling,” he says, “but no bleeding. Honestly, you seem pretty good for someone who hit their head that hard. Anyone at home that can watch you for a few hours?” 

Buck allows himself to be helped up and resists the urge to drown himself. “I’m heading into work in a little bit,” he says. “I’ll let them know. Thanks a lot.”

“I can give you a ride if you need—”

“I live just down the street,” Buck says, embarrassment catching up to him now that they’re standing in the small shower stall, too close together for no real reason. “But thanks, I appreciate it.”

He dresses quickly—carefully, not wanting a repeat of the shower incident, but quickly—and leaves, shampoo still in his hair. Whatever, he can shower at home, he just needs to get out of this locker room. 

Hen’s still on shift when he makes it in to the 118 two hours later, going straight for the coffee maker and downing two cups; he tells her briefly that he hit his head, giving no other details, and she fusses over him for a few minutes before she also declares him to be fine. 

It’s a slow day for the most part, just two calls until lunch, when Bobby comes jogging up the stairs while Buck is digging through the refrigerator, hoping to find leftovers. He’ll steal Chim’s if he has to, but he had sworn there was some leftover lasagne from the night before. “Alright, listen up,” Bobby says, “this is Eddie Diaz from the 136, he’s ours for the week. Buck, show him the ropes.”

“Sure thing, Cap,” he calls, pulling out the hidden pan of lasagna triumphantly and turning around—

“Hey,” says tall, dark, and very much dressed. “How’s the head?”

Buck is so screwed. 


	11. white flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags: unrequited love

He’s running late. 

Maddie’s called him twice already to tell him to get himself out of the house, dodging arguments about whether or not it’s important that his hair looks good or if he’s already worn this red shirt to the restaurant they’re going to. She cuts off everything he says, sounding almost curt, and he knows the faces she’s making: eyebrows raised, lips pursed, the way her head shakes a little as she breathes out a sharp sigh. 

So he almost doesn’t pick the envelope that’s sitting right inside his front door up, because it’s going to bother him if he doesn’t open it, and if he opens it he’s going to read whatever is in there, and he’s already late. 

But it’s going to bother him if he _doesn’t_ pick it up, so—

It’s heavy, and he knows what’s inside without opening it, which he does anyway, tearing open the side and tipping the plain silver house key into his hand. The weight of it—it drags him down, pulls him deep underwater until he can’t breathe, until he’s choking on regret and self-loathing. 

He hardly remembers the door swinging shut, how he ends up in the kitchen with a bottle of tequila clenched in one hand, the house key in the other, leaving deep grooves in Buck’s skin, a channel of hurt carved into him; he hardly remembers looking at the envelope again and pulling out a ripped corner of notebook paper with Eddie’s messy scrawl of words: _please don’t hate me._

“—it’s got to stop. Grow up and tell him how you feel.”

Maddie’s voice is loud and sharp as knives, cutting open all the wounds he’d tried to hold closed with bare hands for the last two weeks. He leans against the—

wall? 

His hip hurts, he’s not sure why he’s down here on the floor, cheek smashed against the hardwood, but Maddie’s pulling him up a second later, her eyes soft. 

“I told ‘m,” he says. He doesn’t understand himself, and tries again. He can say the words, his tongue is just heavy in his mouth, weighted down with regret. 

Maddie looks at him for so long that his eyes start to close. “I’m so, so sorry,” she says, and it wakes him like a slap to the face, and he snorts. 

It’s not funny. 

But—maybe it is. The universe has never been on Buck’s side; it proved that with Abby, and the truck, and the tsunami, and, and—he should have known. He should have taken one look at Eddie and stamped him with _off-limits_. He should have known that Eddie was not for someone like _him_ , the mess he still is, insecurity settled around him like an aura. 

“‘s what he said,” he laughs. “I said, _’m in love with you, Eddie_ , and he said, _’m so, so sorry._ ” He’s laughing—his cheeks are wet, but he’s laughing, because it’s what he deserves for even thinking he had a shot. If he doesn’t laugh, he might start to feel something about it, and he can’t do that. 

“Evan,” Maddie says gently, “let’s get you some water and get you to bed.”

“Then,” he says, because she should know it all, she should _know_ , “he didn’t talk to me for three days and—then he just comes to work. Like. _Nothing_. Pretended it didn’t even happen. And then—” he holds out his left hand, aching from the pressure he’s put on it all night, from the grip he has around Eddie’s stupid key.

His. 

Not Eddie’s. 

Not anymore. 

“Bed,” Maddie says. She reaches for the key and he snatches his hand back. 

“Let’s go to dinner,” he says, putting his hand on the stair rail and pulling himself up. “S’rry we’re late. I can call Chim.”

“Evan,” Maddie says, gently, “it’s four in the morning.”


	12. thread the needle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> silly fluff

“Buck, why are we doing this?”

“Because Maddie’s full of shit and thinks she and Chim are closer than we are just because they have a kid and have been together longer,” Buck whispers, lips so close to Eddie’s that he can feel them brush against his own as he talks. 

He frowns, it drags his bottom lip against Buck’s and he could swear that Buck’s breathing had hitched. “I still don’t see how sex yoga has anything to do with that.”

“It’s not _sex yoga_ ,” Buck hisses. “God, do you read anything I send you?”

“Not really,” he says. His arms are starting to go numb above them—not a good sign considering Buck has made sure they hold their poses for longer than Maddie and Chim, and neither look particularly uncomfortable. “You tell me we’re doing something and we do it. Why should I read about it?”

He doesn’t have to see Buck’s expression to know the look of disbelief on his face, which is good because when he opens his eyes, Buck is so close that he looks disfigured. “You just—trust me? Eddie, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

He can’t help it; he laughs, mouth bumping against Buck’s, their bodies swaying with his sudden movement. Buck’s hands tighten around his and they rediscover their balance easily, Eddie relaxes and lets Buck correct them before steadying his feet once more. “Sorry that my trust in you is unshakeable,” he says, and there’s a harsh hushing sound across the studio that makes both of them snort. 

The class hasn’t actually been all that bad; Eddie does yoga with Chris once a week and although most these poses are far more advanced than what he’s given in a child’s class, the majority of them center around finding balance with your partner, which comes easily enough to both of them that neither had blinked or asked many questions when given a direction, they just compiled. Some poses are the same, just done side by side or hand in hand, which is—nice, actually.

Sure, Buck had dropped him on his face once, but he’d yanked Eddie back up quickly and kissed him gently afterwards, so Eddie had no complaints. And Eddie had accidentally kicked him in the neck three poses later, so all things considered, they’re even. 

“One more minute in this pose,” the instructor says. “Focus on your partners breathing, see what it tells you.”

Eddie doesn’t need to listen to Buck’s breathing to know he’s irritated that they’re spending their only free night of the week doing this for the sole purpose of one-upping his sister, he can tell by the way his head rolls slightly to the left before his jaw clenches, the way his fingers flex against Eddie’s instead of his thumb rubbing gently across Eddie’s knuckles. “Hey,” he says quietly, “wanna go to the drive in after this? We can stop at home and get blankets for the back of the truck.”

“Tamales at Lupita’s?” Buck asks hopefully, and it’s not an accidental kiss that Eddie feels this time. 

“Anything you want,” Eddie says, and he hears someone groan. 

“Will you two please shut _up_ ,” Chim says, only to be shushed by the instructor and she moves them into Savasana. 

Eddie’s never been a fan of Savasana if he’s being honest—laying flat on his back, alone, listening to music that’s supposed to relax him rarely ever accomplishes that goal. But they’re arranged head to foot with their partner and directed to hold hands, resting one on their own stomachs and one on their partners to help them breathe in sync, and he finds he doesn’t mind it so much this way. 

Buck squeezes his hand once, and as the music is coming to an end he whispers, “did you know another term for this is corpse pose?” 

“There’s no one I’d rather pretend to be dead with,” he teases, sitting up when the lights turn back on. 

“Okay, we’re never doing anything with them again,” Maddie says to Chim, looking over at them and rolling up her yoga mat. “Do they do this at work, too?”

“Oh, it’s worse at work,” Chim says, and Eddie laughs. “They’re not even pretending to be quiet at the station.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can come yell at me like everyone else does on tumblr @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com/).


End file.
